The Definition of Love
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Baxley Academics AU. Joe Molesley cannot believe his luck when renown academic Phyllis Baxter gives him a place on her faculty staff, let alone when she seems to be so interested in him.
1. Chapter 1

**Ok, so I was going to wait and publish the whole story at once but the first section was all done and there didn't seem to be any point in making you wait. I really hope you like it.**

Professor Phyllis Baxter's reputation preceded her into any room. Which was why it was a surprise when she appeared, a little hesitantly, through the glass door at the end of his first lecture as he was making a vague attempt to keep his notes organised. He gestured that she should come in. She was dressed in black trousers and a dark brown jumper that looked very soft. Her hair was tied back.

She was less severe in the flesh than she appeared on the headshot in the inside cover of her books, though her attractiveness made her just as unnerving. She seemed, however, determined to put him at ease.

"Don't mind me," she told him quietly, "I'm just popping in to ask how your first day's going."

There was something a little incredible about this. Here was the woman knocking the old guns of Renaissance literary criticism off their long-established pedestals, and she was shuffling timidly around his lecture theatre, telling him not to mind her. He ran his hand a little nervously through his hair.

"Yeah," he told her, smiling, "It's all been fine so far."

"That's good," she replied happily, "I'm sorry we couldn't get you your own office. I've put you on the priority list for the next one that's free."

"It's alright," he replied, "Don't worry about it. Thomas is…. an interesting character."

Professor Baxter snorted.

"Thomas is the grouchiest git in North London. Oh it's alright," she told him, seeing the startled look on his face, "I have the evidence to back it up. We were undergrads together."

"You went here with Thomas?" he asked, surprised. He'd had her down for Oxford, and one of the better colleges too.

She caught his look of surprise, and he felt abashed.

"I just thought, because of your father-…" he stopped short, realising that that had been exactly the worst thing he could have said.

Professor Paul Baxter had been one of the gods when Joe was an undergrad, cutting an imposing figure around the quads at Oxford. Joe had imagined that Phyllis would have been sent there too, without question, but Thomas had made a point of mentioning that he had gone here as an underground and not Oxford. He was certain he had either hurt or offended her, though not certain which, and so, to counter the mounting displeasure he was imaging all too vividly, he countered quickly;

"But you don't have to come from Oxford to lead the field. As you're proving right now."

She considered him for a moment. Then the corners of her mouth turned upwards a little and he was able to breathe again.

"Thank you," she told him quietly, "That's kind of you."

There was silence for a moment.

"Well, let me know if you have any problems," she told him.

"You don't have to run around after me," he told her, "You must have better things to do."

She smiled briefly.

"It's my job," she told him softly.

He was almost certain it wasn't but he didn't say anything. He didn't feel like disagreeing with her about that.

"We'll see each other around then, Dr. Molesley," she told him, then, grinning impishly, "Unless you're a moody bastard like Thomas and skulk around in your office all day."

"There won't be room for the two of us," he reminded her, "And please call me Joe."

"Alright," she replied smiling, "That's good because you have to call me Phyllis. Professor Baxter will always be my dad."

"I think you're giving him a run for his money," he told her confidentially.

She seemed unable not to smile.

"You should come round to dinner," she told him, "Bring your wife."

He was too busy thanking her for the thought to tell her he didn't have a wife.

….

"Have you seen Professor Baxter yet?"

"Yes," Joe replied, "She popped in this morning."

There was a moment's silence.

"She's nice," he stated simply, trying not to overdo it.

Thomas snorted gently, none too quietly.

"What's that for?" Joe enquired, a little taken aback by that reaction.

"Nothing," Thomas replied, "Only that you ought to like her; it's mainly thanks to her you got the job at all."

"Come again?" Joe asked him.

"Without her you wouldn't be here," Thomas told him, "She was adamant that it was you she wanted, and she's got enough clout for the rest of them to listen to her."

As the meaning sank in, it was increasingly difficult to ignore the glowing feeling in his chest.

"She probably remembered me from my interview," he replied a moment later, trying to sound dismissive.

Obviously he failed, because Thomas snorted again.

"You wish it was," he told him, "She read one of your essays, and she wouldn't stop harping on about it."

"Do you remember which one?" Joe asked him, in as offhand a manner as he could muster.

"I wish I could bloody forget," Thomas told him dryly, putting a cigarette to his lips with impeccable timing as they left the front door of the faculty, "It was your _Definitions of Love_."

"In modern theatre?" Joe pressed.

Thomas raised an eyebrow, striking up his lighter.

"How many have you written?" he asked, "Because if you've done another one, I'm leaving before she gets wind. I can't fucking stand it."

Joe sensed that smiling in any form at this point was the best way to get Thomas to set him alight rather than the cigarette.

"She never said," he told him thoughtfully, "She didn't even say she'd read it."

Thomas cast a disinterested eye over his face, and gave a sour smile.

"You needn't go around thinking she fancies you," he told him bluntly, "She might wet her knickers over your definitions of love, but I can guarantee that's as far as her interest goes. She's married."

There were several things about that utterance which took him aback, but one more than the rest.

"Is she?" he asked him, barely disguising his surprise, hoping he did a better job with his disappointment, "She doesn't wear a ring."

"Yes she does."

That he knew was wrong, that was not what he'd seen before, or he would have known.

"She didn't have one on today," he told Thomas.

Thomas frowned, his displeasure at being contradicted obvious.

"Then she's getting it mended. Or she left it by the sink. Some shit like that. She wears one. And she doesn't mess around, either, if that's what you're thinking. Even if her old man is a wanker."

He didn't have time to contradict the first part, or the middle before his mind was dwelling on the latter.

"Maybe she doesn't think he is?" he suggested.

Thomas snorted one last time as he finally managed to hail a cab, treading his cigarette into the pavement.

"I wouldn't be sure about that," he told him as he got in and shut the door sharply.

He left Joe on the pavement, so deep in thought that he nearly missed the bus when it came.

The next day he checked, so he could at least be certain about one thing. And she wasn't, she wasn't wearing it.

…

It wasn't long before the invitation to dinner achieved a firmer grounding, and he found himself making his way through a much nicer part of North London than he was used to with a hastily selected bottle of wine in his hand.

He had to admit, it was curiosity that brought him there as much as anything else. He'd given it some prolonged subconscious thought and he was curious to see just how liberal Thomas was being with the term wanker when he talked about Phyllis' husband. His curiosity superseded the awkwardness of having to admit that he was in fact single when he turned up alone for dinner, despite Phyllis' very optimistic assumptions.

He turned a corner onto the street that he thought must be hers, and couldn't help being impressed and intimidated in equal measure. He'd rung out of Thomas that Peter, the husband, was something in the city. He highly doubted that a street like this could be afforded on an academic salary, even if it was a head of department one.

He had the address written down in the front page of his copy of John Donne. Being invited to dinner had given him the sudden and rather anxious feeling of needing to brush up on Phyllis' speciality. He was near her house now, his note told him, just a few more. It was completely useless anyway, he reflected as he walked on, bringing him up to a house with a few hollyhocks growing outside, any reading he did now would never bring him up to the amount she had done. And then there was what she did with what she read, she was brilliant-….

He raised his hand and knocked on the door.

But then, the thought slipped quietly into his mind, nagging and subversive, she had been just as impressed by his _Definitions_ , if Thomas was to be believe. Which he probably wasn't. He could just imagine him, deliberately planting the thought in his head, watching him squirm with the possibility of-….

The door opened.

Phyllis was there, beautiful and somehow unusually flustered.

"Hello, Joe, come in," she told him.

He considered for a moment that she had forgotten he was coming, but that was belied by the dress she was wearing and the care she had taken with her appearance- she looked like a lady expecting company.

"I'm afraid you've only got me tonight," she told him, helping him very naturally as he took off his coat, "Peter was called in by work at the last minute. I'm terribly sorry, it's so embarrassing-… I've been left in the lurch rather."

"It happens to the best of us," he told her, "My girlfriend did it to me too."

"Oh god, could she not make it either?" she asked him.

"No, I mean she dumped me," he told her, "Sorry," he added a moment later, "It was a while ago, not relevant at all. I don't know why I even said that, actually."

But she was grinning.

"Doesn't matter," she told him, "And fuck her," she added, almost as an afterthought.

His eyes widened, and she grinned nervously. He smiled at her.

"You look lovely, by the way," he told her, because she did, in her slender black dress, cut to the knee.

"Thank you," she replied, "You don't look so bad yourself."

There was a moment's pause.

"So," he surmised, "It's just the two of us."

"If that's alright with you," she told him.

"I'm alright if you're alright."

"Good," she replied, "We're both alright."

"I brought some wine," he told her unnecessarily as he offered her the bottle.

"Even better."

 **…** **.**

They were through the bottle of wine he had brought and through one of the ones she'd had in the fridge when he finally got round to asking :"Is this the initiation for new faculty members then? You get them absolutely fucked while you grill them about their work?"

She barked a harsh laugh.

"I've not been grilling you," she protested, "I'm just interested! And if you're fucked, then god knows what I am."

He grinned into his glass.

"You know this almost makes me admire the poor young sods who do this every night and still turn up for class in the morning."

"God knows," she confided in him, "It's a few years since I've done that."

Her hand cradled her glass elegantly. No ring. He tore his eyes away.

"It's been quite a while for me too," he agreed with her.

"God," she complained, "We're such middle-aged saddos."

"You speak for yourself," he told her, and then grinned, "At least you managed to get married before you turned into one."

She snorted contemptuously.

"You have no idea," she told him swiftly, "That makes me one. You try being a bankers wife sometime."

"Funnily enough, I've never been given the opportunity," he told her dryly.

"Well, it's hell," she told him, draining her glass, "Sad doesn't even cover it."

Silently, he topped her up again.

"Cheers," she told him, taking another drink, lapsing deep into thought.

"At least you've never been dumped in a Pizza Express," he told her.

It took her a moment to register what he'd said.

"Oh no," she murmured in horror, "She didn't?"

Somewhere during the two bottles he'd told her about Sarah, and the slow the eventually poisonous decline. He nodded grimly.

"Yes," he told her calmly, pouring himself another drink, "Where's the strangest place you've ever been dumped?"

"That's an easy one," she told him, "I was dumped at the top of the Eiffel Tower once."

"Classy," he murmured darkly, and she quirked her eyebrows at him as she took another a drink.

She smiled mischievously as she swallowed it down.

"Where's the weirdest place you've ever had sex?"

"Oh we're not doing this," he told her, pretending horror, trying to ignore his racing heart, "How long have we known each other?" he asked incredulously.

"I know, but I've admired you for _so long_ ," she protested, really drawing the words out.

She gazed at him, somehow both plaintively and playfully, running a finger absent-mindedly around the rim of her glass.

"Mine's very dull," she told him.

"Which by your standards is probably in the middle of the Colosseum," he told her.

She laughed softly.

"It was in a car," she told, "Round the back of my friend's house when I was seventeen. It was New Year."

"What was wrong with the house?" he asked her, "Why did you have to go in the car?"

"Too many people," she told him, "There was a party on. I was very shy in those days. But come on," she told him, leaning towards him a little, "I've told you mine. Now you have to tell me yours."

He couldn't look her in the eye.

"It was in a gym changing room."

She nearly spat out her wine.

"Dear Lord, Joe," she murmured. He couldn't tell if she was impressed or appalled, "Was it with Sarah?"

"God no," he replied, "It was when I was at Oxford with the girl I was seeing then. She was very…. forward."

She watched him in awed silence.

"That's all," he told her, "It's all been quite tame apart from that."

"Christ on a bike," she murmured, and he laughed softly, if only because one of the foremost literary experts of her generation was sitting there using the most ridiculous vernacular.

"More wine," he murmured gently.

 **Please review if you have the time.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much for your reviews so far. I really hope you like this new chapter.**

"So, let me get this straight. Conflict arises in the drama of the twentieth century on purely intellectual grounds alone, because of fundamental differences in the characters' perceptions of key ideas, mainly love. And this is the only factor which consistently prevents resolution in the texts of the period?"

Joe didn't take his eyes off the laptop at all as Thomas spoke.

"That's about the size of it," he confirmed, "You know you could always degrade yourself to the point of actually reading my essay."

Thomas did not need to voice his contempt, by the time he did Joe had already imagined it.

"Even if I had time, I wouldn't," he assured him, "It sounds like utter bollocks to me."

"That's because you've spent your career focusing on literature which functions on an entirely different basis," Joe told him, not bothering to disguise his boredom.

"Hope I'm not interrupting," they both turned to see Phyllis' face peering round the door, "You still got time for coffee?"

"Yes," he told her straight away, getting up, taking his jacket from the back of his chair, "I could really do with it."

She waited for him just outside the door, she arms folded tightly against her black sweater.

"Be careful," Thomas called wryly after them, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

The door closed behind them.

"I've just been defending my life's work to him," Joe explained.

"What to Thomas?" Phyllis asked incredulously, "I wouldn't strain yourself over that."

"No, I didn't," he told her, "What have you been up to today?"

Phyllis made a face.

"A lot of shit," she murmured, "Mainly admin shit. They don't tell you how much of that comes with the top job. Today it was for Faculty Dinner."

"Now I've heard that's actually worth going to here," he told her.

"Bloody better be," she told him, "If I can't get any articles written I should at least be able to throw a damn good party instead. You'd better come, by the way," she informed him, "If you're not there, I'm leaving you marooned in that office with Thomas. Forever."

He smiled ruefully at the thought.

"Oh, I'll be there," he told her softly.

There was a moment's pause.

"Would you like to go together? As a sort of-…." he didn't quite know how to conceptualise them, "Team?" he finished hopefully.

Another pause. They had stopped in the street by this point. At least she was smiling, even if she was also looking awkward.

"Joe, I don't know if you know, but at the Faculty dinners here the staff get a plus one from outside the department. And-…"

"And you're bringing Peter," he finished for her, "Shit. Sorry."

"It's alright," she told him consolingly, "You weren't to know."

"I know," he replied, "But it's a new low even for me; asking out a married woman to something she's already going with her husband to."

She laughed properly now.

"Don't worry about it," she assured him, touching his arm softly, nudging him along, "Come on, let's go and have some coffee."

 **…** **..**

"Didn't you think of going into the Ancient Greeks? And there seven definitions of love?"

She sat down opposite him, bearing two cups of coffee and two questions. He concentrating on the wrong part.

"When?" he asked stupidly.

"In your essay," she prompted him.

"Oh god," he murmured, "I've spent this morning defending it to Thomas. Not you as well. I thought you liked it?"

"Just because I liked it doesn't mean I don't get to ask questions," she told him, "The more I like it the more questions I have."

She looked at him for a moment, smiling expectantly.

"Why would I go into the Ancient Greeks?" he asked her, "What could be further from modern drama?"

"But any notion of defining love must draw on that sense of multiplicity-…" she protested.

He smiled wryly.

"Why?" he asked calmly, and when she didn't answer immediately he pressed another one on her, "Does an ordinary person think about the Ancient Greeks when they think about love?"

She raised her eyebrow at him.

"You're twisting what I'm saying," she told him.

He smiled back at her.

"Well, maybe a little," he conceded, "But the point still stands. People don't consciously define their feelings, let alone relate them to antiquated definitions."

"My family did," she interjected, a little indignantly, though he couldn't tell in which direction her indignation was intended.

"I'm not talking about people like us, like your family" he told her, correcting himself a little, "I don't know what your house was like, true, but you don't know how mine was either and I think mine is probably more what I'm talking about. I'm talking about ordinary people. Not unintelligent people, not careless people, but people who-…. get on with their feelings rather than dissecting them and writing essays about them. People who get plays written about them."

She was quiet for a moment.

"Nobody's ordinary," she said at last.

"Well, you're probably right about that," he conceded, "I just meant in this one respect."

She lapsed into thought again and he let her for long moments.

"Your coffee will get cold," he reminded her gently.

 **…** **..**

He sat back at his desk later that afternoon, staring blankly at his laptop screen. A half drunk cup of coffee was beside him. "One for the road," Phyllis has said to him, handing him another coffee in a takeaway cup once he'd drunk his first one. He'd smiled his defeat, and reflected that this was probably how she'd become a genuine caffeine addict. The tips of her fingers had touched the side of his as he took the cup from her. Her cheekbones were so high when she smiled.

"Lecture notes aren't going to write themselves."

God, he hadn't realised Thomas could let himself in so quietly.

"Do you have to?" Joe asked him tiredly. The desired effect of the coffee had long worn away.

"No," Thomas replied, depositing his jacket on the back of his chair, "I enjoy it."

Joe didn't turn around.

"What's made you so fucking chipper then?" he asked, not bothering to disguise his mood.

The half-beat Thomas took made him think he'd even given him pause.

"What's turned you into such a moody wanker all of a sudden?" Thomas wanted to know, "Don't tell me. I know who you had your lunch with."

Joe said nothing, because he thought if he did he'd shout his fucking head off.

"Look," Thomas' tone wasn't jibing now. It was halting and awkward, "I know you and Phyllis-…. Well, actually I don't know you and Phyllis- I haven't got a clue what's going on between you, but I know there's something! But you need to watch yourself. If you think something is going to happen. Not just because her husband's a bloody rich man- which he is by the way. I don't think that cuts much ice with her-… They're not happy," As much as he hated himself for it, Joe was listening now, he was listening at that. "You're right," Thomas conceded, "She's not had her ring on for weeks now that I've noticed. But you need to be careful still. Just because he can't make her happy doesn't mean that you can."

Joe realised his jaw was clenched very tightly. He only noticed when he tried to unclench it to speak.

"Why would it?" he asked as lightly as he could, still not turning to look at Thomas, "When you think about it."

"I've known her a long time," Thomas told him.

"Are you saying she's difficult?" Joe queried.

"No," Thomas replied, "Anything but. But she's been hurt before, hurt a 've got to think about, hard, before you do anything. Think about if it's worth risking her getting hurt again. Right?"

 **Please review if you have the time.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry this update has taken a while. I really hope you like it.**

Joe did not have to wait until the Faculty Dinner to get a look at Peter. More than a look, really. And he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

He'd half moved into Phyllis' office, that was the only reason he saw Peter at all, and he hoped that didn't look too dodgy. (He wasn't even sure if, in and of itself, it was dodgy or not. Christ knew what any of this was.) She'd made the offer casually, with half a smile on her face, telling him that the space was there if Thomas ever got on his nerves too much. He tried to tell himself that he took her up on the offer because Thomas really was that annoying as a person.

In fact, he was the only one in there when Peter turned up. And of course, he'd had no idea who he was and had turned around, irritated at being disturbed and asked, "Can I help you?"

"Sorry," the man in the door had said, "I must have the wrong place. Where has Phyllis Baxter moved to?"

"No, this is still her. I'm just sharing for a bit," Joe told him, still sitting at the spare desk, turned towards his laptop.

"Oh right," the man replied, "I see. Any idea what time she'll be back?"

"Not sure," Joe replied.

The man cleared his throat, just a touch.

"I'm Peter, I should say," he explained, "Her husband."

"Oh."

Joe allowed himself half a moment before turning back towards him.

"She's off lecturing the third years at the moment, but she's been gone a while, I'd have thought she'd been back by now," he explained, "So I'm not sure when she will be."

Peter was a good-looking man, there was no hopeful portion of his brain that could deny that; his hairline was depressingly assertive and, when Joe stood up, he found that he was a good few inches shorter.

"I'm Joe Molesley," he told him, offering his hand to him, "I'm new round here. I've moved in with Phyllis for a bit because I'm having a bit of trouble round at my office." It was no word of a lie.

Peter shook his hand briefly, just as Phyllis walked in.

She was him and a good deal of surprise registered in her face.

"Hello, Peter, what are you doing here?" she asked him, "I didn't know hell had frozen over."

Joe would have smiled at her joke had it not been for the edge in her voice. He decided to make himself scarce.

"I was about to pop to the coffee machine," he announced, "Anyone want anything?"

"Joe, you hate coffee machine coffee," Phyllis told him, "You don't have to go because Peter's here."

Joe sat meekly back now at his desk, making himself as scarce as possible nonetheless. He stared firmly at the laptop screen, trying to stop his ears from standing to attention.

"Have you forgotten?" Peter was asking her.

"No," Phyllis replied, "I hadn't." Her voice sounded cold. "I told you I couldn't make it."

"And I said it doesn't quite work like that, didn't I?" Peter asked. Joe thought he sounded tired.

"Yes, you did," Phyllis acknowledged plainly, "But I said then, and I'm still saying now, I'm up to my eyes in work and I can't make it."

"You know how important these company dinners are," Peter told her, "The investors don't think I'm worth their time if we're not both there, and then I'll be out on my ear and then where will we be?"

"Well, then we won't be harangued into going to these wankery dinners every few months, for a start," Phyllis responded, matching Peter's voice for tiredness and truly outstripping him for cold boredom. "One dinner won't make a difference."

"Don't be obtuse," he told her bluntly, "You're not stupid, Phyllis."

"No, I'm not," she agreed sharply, "Still doesn't mean I'm going to bloody go, though."

If Joe could have reasonably extracted himself from the room, he would have done so in a flash. But Phyllis, her stance faintly aggressive, was squarely blocking his path to the door, and he didn't dare cross her in this mood.

"Phyllis," Peter said tersely, "I don't think you're being reasonable. I make time to come to your faculty dinners."

"Oh, like you did last year?" she asked him, "And two years before that?"

"Well, I try," he amended, "You know it's bloody hard to find the time with my workload."

"Oh, I know," Phyllis snapped in reply, "And so does the rest of the faculty because I had to explain over and over again why my husband had ditched me and I was up at that bloody top table by myself. God, Thomas was unbearable-…"

"Thomas is a twat," Peter declared.

Well, Joe had to admit, at times there was a case for it.

"Don't be shit about Thomas," Phyllis reprimanded him, Joe mentally taking the reprimand too and flustering a little, "That won't get us anywhere. And it wouldn't matter if you'd been to every faculty dinner of my life, because that wouldn't change the fact that I'm too busy, I've not got a dress with me. I haven't got any make-up-…"

"I've brought you some," Peter told her, depositing the large Selfridges bag that he'd brought with him onto her desk, "I brought the black one you always where, and I think I've got the make-up right, I don't really know-…"

"I've got about ten black dresses," Phyllis murmured irritably to herself, peering briefly inside the bag, "Probably all of them would crease to hell in there. Peter," she said firmly, straightening up and looking at her husband, "I don't know which part of what I'm saying you don't understand, but the third year reports won't write themselves, and they have to have their feedback before they do their finals."

"For fuck's sake, they can wait a night for them-…"

"They shouldn't have to," she cut him off swiftly, "They've worked hard and I've worked hard, and I don't see why any of us should have to be delayed by a bunch city dickheads."

"Those dickheads keep you in vodka and your precious fucking black dresses," Peter snapped.

Joe could tell they had both forgotten he was here, and ventured a look at Phyllis' face. Her expression betrayed no notion that the atmosphere in that office could have been cut with a knife.

 **/**

He'd been at the cleaners getting his dinner shirt back before the Faculty dinner when he realised his invitation was on his desk in Phyllis' office. They would have probably let him in without it, everyone knew him, but he didn't want to risk looking like a fool so he nipped back to the office.

Even though it was her office, Phyllis was the last person he expected to see there. Sitting at her desk with a collapsable mirror, she seemed to be putting the last bits of her make-up on. She seemed surprised to see him too, as he halted a little in the door.

"What are you doing here?" she asked him pleasantly, looking at him in the mirror, "I thought I was going to be the last one there."

"Forgot my invite," he told her.

"Ah," she said, smiling as he crossed to his desk to find it and she put her mascara back in her bag.

"What are you doing getting ready here?" he asked her.

"There wasn't much point lugging all the way home," she replied, "I didn't really want to. Bit far."

"Right," Joe agreed briefly.

She turned to look at him at his tone.

"What's that for?" she wanted to know. She was more curious than accusing, but her tone was firm, she wanted to know what he was thinking.

"I just thought-…" he said after a moment, "I was worried that Peter was giving you a hard time about tonight. After-…"

"Oh god," she murmured.

He watched her closely as she rested her forehead for a moment against her fingers.

"Well," she told him, looking up again, "You're not to be blamed for thinking that, after last time."

He didn't dare ask her whether or not it was true.

"I'll tell you one thing though," she told him, checking her appearance in the mirror, a fierce expression on her face, "If he doesn't show up tonight, then it's over."

He did a double take, he was hard-pressed to stop himself exclaiming. She saw his face, and must have read disbelief there.

"I mean it, you know," she told him firmly.

"I know," he replied hastily, "I've no doubt you do."

"And," she hesitated for a moment, "Do you think I'm wrong? Do you think I'm over-reacting?"

"No," he had replied before he could check himself and make himself sound more measured.

He caught her smile in the mirror just before she stood up. Her black dress fell to its full and glorious length as she turned round to him. Her dark hair fell gently down over her shoulders. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

"Good," she told him softly, "Because I don't care if I am. I've had enough."

He didn't question her, he only told her:

"He's an idiot if he won't come for you. You look wonderful."

She smiled radiantly. Even grimly angry, half-depressed, he thought, she was transcendent.

"Thank you," she told him softly, her red lips turning gently upwards.

 **/**

It wasn't only Peter who was conspicuous by his absence half way through the dinner though, Joe thought he hadn't seen Phyllis for a good half an hour. She was there throughout the dinner, sitting quietly beside Peter's empty chair, looking radiant, smiling bravely. But when the dancing started, all of a sudden she was gone. She was probably worried that he was going to ask her to dance with him, he thought ruefully. Well, she was probably right, he probably would have done, and it was probably right of her to pre-empt him and get away. He kept casting anxious glances over to the table where Thomas sat, wondering if he knew anything.

"Will you come and dance with me? I want to talk to you."

He was so busy looking towards the door for her that she completely took him by surprise, approaching him from behind, laying a tentative hand on his shoulder over his jacket. He complied immediately and followed her.

Most of the students had gone by this point, and the faculty members were mostly taking advantage of the bar. No one was paying attention to them.

As she took hold of his hands and stood closer to him he tried not to think of the fact this was the most he'd ever touched her, the closest he'd ever stood to her.

"Are you alright?" he asked her quietly, "I didn't know where you'd gone."

"I know, I'm sorry," she apologised quietly, her head bowed and her voice lowered, "Peter called me up. He said he wanted to talk."

"He's got a bit of bloody nerve," Joe commented quietly, "To not turn up and then expect you to talk to him."

Her head raised and she looked at him.

"He's left me, Joe," she murmured.

"He's-… what?" he asked incredulously.

He nearly dropped her hands he was so shocked, but instead he seemed to hold her tighter.

"He's been seeing someone else."

"What? That bastard!" he hissed under his breath.

"I've been so stupid," she told him softly, her eyes closed.

"No," he insisted quietly to her, "You've not-… You've done nothing wrong!"

"No, I mean I should have said yes when you asked me to come to this with you, and to hell with him."

He couldn't think of anything to say for a moment. He was so angry he could spit.

"He's a bastard," he told her quietly, "He's an utter wanker. He doesn't deserve you."

She gave an appreciative sniff and said nothing else. He looked down at her face, still floored by shock.

"Are you alright?" he asked her softly.

"I feel a bit funny," she told him.

"Do you want to get out of here?" he asked.

"Yes, please."

 **Please review if you have the time.**


	4. Chapter 4

They clattered out into the car park together.

"Do you have a car?" she asked him.

"No," he replied.

"Shit, of course you don't," she murmured apologetically, "Sorry."

"It's ok," he told her, because it was, she probably hardly knew what was going on, "Come on, let's get a cab."

He led her towards the road, where, as luck would have it, there was a cab coming along. He hailed it down and held open the door for her.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked them when they were both inside.

They hadn't talked about that.

"We can go to mine," she said quickly, leaning forward to give him the address.

"Peter won't be there," she told him, settling back into the seat as the car pulled back into the road, "He said he'd go to a hotel."

"Right," he murmured apprehensively.

She turned towards him.

"Don't look so worried, Joe," she told him, "If he gave you any trouble-… after this-… I'd kill him."

He believed she would too. But she was mistaken, thinking his concern was for himself or for Peter. He watched her looking distractedly out of the window of the cab, she seemed almost out of breath. Carefully, he offered his hand to her across the seat.

"Are you alright?" he asked her.

She turned towards him, saw his hand, slipping her palm gently against his, her fingers.

She nodded silently.

The light from the passing streetlights was glancing over the bridge of her nose and he was fascinated by it.

 **/**

It did take a long time to get to her place, but he paid for the cab without a second thought. She slipped away up the stairs to the front door to let them in, and closed the door snuggly behind him as he joined her.

He categorically did not expect to find himself pressed into the door by the belting force of her body half a second later. He tried to gasp in surprise, but her mouth was already on his, he nearly choked. Her lips were urgent, hot, needy against his. For a startled moment he succumbed to the delicious pressure of them. He would have had to have been a saint not to. But he couldn't-… not with her like this-…

"Phyllis," he managed to put his hands on his shoulders and press her gently away.

"What's wrong?" she asked him, looking up at him in confusion.

A look of horror dawned on her face.

"Shit," she murmured, "You don't even fancy me, do you?"

"Yes," he insisted without a moment's hesitation, "Are you mad? I more than fancy you."

They both stood in breathless silence for a moment, taking in what he'd just said.

"Then what?" she asked him, confused, "What's to stop us-…?"

"Apart from your completely overwrought emotional state, you mean?"

"I am not overwrought," she insisted, stepping closer to him, pointing her finger straight at him.

He raised his eyebrows a little, looking at her finger. She took a moment's pause, and then stepped back a little.

"Alright," she conceded, "I'm, perhaps, a little overwrought. But that doesn't mean I don't know what I want-… Christ, I've fancied you for ages, Joe! And part of me is thrilled that Peter's been such a shit because it means I've got a reason to leave him and-…"

"Phyllis, love, slow down," he murmured, clasping her shoulder gently.

Her head bowed, her hair falling loose around her face.

"It would be wrong of me to let this happen like this, for the first time," he told her, "Even though I do want… us to happen. But I should say," he started again, his voice growing a little uneven, "If we did-… I we were to sleep together, I don't think I could pretend it hadn't happened."

She turned her head to where his hand rested on her shoulder and planted an almost defiant kiss on his knuckles.

"I don't want you to," she told him softly, "Nor could I."

"Alright," he murmured, carefully soothing her shoulder with his hand, "Well, I'm glad we're on the same page about that."

"Will you stay?" she asked him.

He paused just a little.

"You can sleep on the sofa," she said, and then with half a smile, "Shit, I'll have to sleep there with you. I don't want to be by myself."

He raised one of his hands to her face, gently tucked some of her thick black hair away.

"Alright," he told her.

 **/**

"Where did you end up last night?"

Thomas was depressingly chipper this morning.

"What do you care?" Joe asked in reply.

"I don't, for your sake," Thomas freely confessed.

Joe had to admit he was quite glad to hear that.

"I've got more of an interest in who you left with."

Joe was up straighter, allowing the journal he'd been reading to fall shut and giving Thomas a cursory glance.

"So, let's face it, if you know who I left with you probably know where I ended up," he told him.

Thomas looked smug.

"To be honest, after that dick didn't turn up I don't blame her for going home with you."

Joe almost told Thomas that it was kind of him to say that, but he thought that might be taking it a bit far. And he wasn't going to tell him that Peter _had_ in fact turned up, or what had happened when he did.

But Thomas was on another line of thought now.

"Did you take her back to yours?" he asked.

"No, we went to hers," he answered, picking up the next journal and pulling it in front of himself.

"Was wanker boy not there?"

"No, he was out."

Again, he wasn't going to say where.

Thomas gave a low whistle.

"Nothing happened."

Joe smiled; he could see out of the corner of his eye that Thomas looked appalled.

"What do you mean, nothing happened?"

"We had a cup of tea and went to sleep on the sofa."

"Together?"

"Yes, together," Joe answered simply, "But that's hardly high treason."

"You mean there wasn't any-…"

"Not even a little bit," Joe confirmed.

He didn't need to know about the scene by there door. No one did.

Thomas looked appalled and confused.

"Why aren't you in her office now?" he asked suspiciously.

Joe shrugged.

"She's on the phone," he replied.

She was. To the divorce lawyer.

"But," Thomas insisted, "You two always look like you're about ready to shag each other. You can't ask me to believe that you went home together and then didn't-…"

"Well, we didn't," Joe told him, and then, in a moment of smugness that he knew he'd live to regret, "We're having dinner together tomorrow night."

 **Please review if you have the time.**


	5. Chapter 5

**This finally emerges after my several trips to the pub this week.**

When he picked her up for dinner she wasn't wearing black, she was wearing red. Red lipsticks, red dress, black jacket, black shoes. By the look of her, she couldn't help but smile at the look on his face, which made the whole image of her even more incredibly sexy than it had already been.

"You look lovely," he managed to tell her as she stepped down the stairs, stopping beside him.

"Thank you," she told him softly, leaning forwards and giving him a gentle kiss on the cheek.

He tried not to think about the last time she'd kissed him, only a few feet away from where they were standing now.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked her, "London is your oyster, providing it's not too far from a tube station."

"There's actually a decent place just down the road from here," she told him, smiling, "A French place, and they can usually squeeze you in without a reservation."

"I think I might have walked past it," he told her, "Yeah, that sounds good."

They set off out of the garden and down the street.

"I know I'm meant to wait until we've had at least one glass of wine before I start with the depressing questions," he began hesitantly, "But how did it go with the lawyers?"

She smiled ruefully at his humour, but she smiled nonetheless.

"We haven't done much more than arrange to meet formally," she told him, "Once I'd outlined the situation."

"Oh," he replied, "When are you seeing them?"

"Saturday."

"Right," he answered, "Do you want anyone there? I mean," he added hastily, "Apart from a lawyer, obviously. Like me. For support?"

She smiled properly now.

"It's a tempting offer," she admitted, "But I feel like it makes a better impression if I see them alone."

"I could see you after," he offered, more hesitantly, "If you like. Only if you want, of course."

Her face was half turned towards him as they walked. She was bowing her head a little, but the corners of her mouth were pointing up.

"I'd like that," she told him.

He nodded almost nervously.

"Right, then, that's what we'll do," he told her.

"Thank you, Joe," she told him.

This time it was her who offered her hand to him, and he slipped his fingers gently against hers as they walked down Ladbroke Grove together in the darkening evening.

 ** _/_**

"Have you spoken to Peter since the other night?"

She looked up from her starter just a little sharply.

"One of us had to mention him," he told her apologetically.

"No, I've not," she replied, seeming to reach for her glass of wine almost by instinct, "What is there to say at the moment that we haven't said already?"

He shrugged, casting his mind around.

"Fuck you," he suggested lightly, "Bastard."

She snorted a little with laughter.

"It seems a bit harsh," she told him softly, "After the colossal favour he's done me by buggering off in the first place," she leant forwards a little, putting down her cutlery, "You know, I can't believe we're out together like this," she told him, "I've wanted to have dinner with you again since that first time, when we got horrifically drunk together."

He smiled.

"I can't believe I'm out with you," he told her, giving her what he hoped was a devilishly winning smile but which probably ended up a rather desperate looking gurn, "It wouldn't even begin to cover it to say you're miles out of my league!"

"Oh, shut up!" she told him, "That's just not true. You know what is true, though?" she told him confidentially, "What I think is true?"

"What?" he asked, leaning forward a little too.

"I think I've been half in love with you since I read your stupid essay," she confessed.

He sat there, in awe. He wondered for a moment if she was drunk. Her eyes were shining, but apart from that she seemed perfectly fine.

"What about the other half?" he managed to ask her.

Her eyes half-widened, a smile passed across her lips. For half a second she looked like was about to say something. But then she reached for her glass again and her eyes glittered enticingly.

"Wait and see," she murmured softly.

 ** _/_**

"Where did you have your holidays as a kid?" she asked him.

He pretended to roll his eyes.

"Of all the standard first date questions," he pretended to complain.

"Well," she said softly, "I had to make sure you knew we were definitely on our first date."

He smiled at the significance of it.

"But where did you go?" she pressed, "I want to know."

"We went to Bamburgh," he told her, "It's on the Northumberland Coast."

"I know where it is," she replied softly.

"There's a beach and a castle," he told her, "It's really nice."

"Yes, I can imagine."

"Bet it's a while since you had a date with a bloke who didn't go abroad until he was seventeen," he asked her.

"Well, that's an assumption you make," she said softly, "But it's a correct one. Peter's family had a villa in the south of France."

He titled his head a little, watched her thoughtfully playing with the corner of her napkin. He wondered how the changes, that were only just beginning, would hit her.

She looked up at him then.

"But it's not what you have, is it? It's who you have."

Without even knowing his concerns, she had heartened him.

"Yes," he replied, "Of course it is," he was quiet for a moment, "Where did you go? When you were younger?"

"We went to Italy," she told him, rolling her eyes a second later, "Every time. Because of daddy's research."

He could imagine her there, wandering around Florence, Rome, her dark hair drinking in the sun, reading about the places she went.

"At least you didn't have my sheltered existence," he told her gently, "Italy's lovely."

"Yes, it is," she agreed, "You don't appreciate it enough until you see other places too."

"Where's your favourite place?" he asked her, "In Italy?"

"Venice," she replied, without hesitation and then, after a moment's pause; "It's very romatic." Another little silence. "We should go there together."

 **** ** _/_**

"Phyllis."

She looked up from her food again.

"You're really gorgeous," he told her softly, thoughtfully, letting her know that he meant it in so many senses.

A look of surprise, and then she met his eyes and a smile beamed across her face.

"Do you have any idea how long it's been since someone has said that to me?" she asked softly.

He didn't want to wonder.

"It ought to be said," he replied firmly, "All the time."

She pushed her hair gently behind her ear. She was grinning like an idiot.

"Thank you," she murmured.

 **Please review if you have the time.**


	6. Chapter 6

"Are you going to walk me home?" she asked him as they left the restaurant.

"Of course," he replied, following her just a little down the steps, allowing her to lead the way, "If you want me to."

She smiled wryly.

"And are you going to come in when we get there?" she asked him straight out.

"Well," he said softly, smiling to let her know he was joking around a little bit, "I'm not only walking you there to make sure you survive the long and arduous journey home along the street."

She laughed appreciatively.

"I'll come in if you want me to," he clarified, "And if you want me to fuck off home then I'll fuck off immediately."

The amused look lingered around her lips, but her eyes were full of something else as she turned her face back to him.

"Don't go," she asked him softly.

"Alright," he said simply, "I won't."

He offered his hand to her, and she took it again, eagerly. He felt a little tug on his arm as she quickened her pace just a little. He swallowed a little nervously, but matched her for eagerness as he followed her along the road. Her hair was half loose and it bobbed a little in the air at the speed she was walking. He wanted to stop her, to run his fingers through her hair-….

The five minute walk seemed to take forever. He was glad she was in charge of the key, he knew he would have fumbled it in the lock. Not that his hands were trembling exactly, but they we're getting there.

He lingered in the hall, waiting for her; not wanting to be too far away from her but also not knowing exactly where she wanted him to go.

She turned away from locking the door just little slowly, dropping her bag gently onto the floor, slipping her arms out of her jacket and letting that fall to the floor too, taking slow steps towards him. He stood stock still, a little mesmerised.

"We can do this one of two ways," she told him, standing before him, draping her arms over his shoulders, pulling him towards her, encouraging him to rest his hands on her waist, "Either we could open another bottle of wine, put on some Joni Mitchell or something like that, and see how long it takes us. Or we could go upstairs now," her voice was so soft and seductive, it made him ache, "Either way," she continued, "I want you to come to bed with me. And if you're still worried- because I know you were the other night-" she told him firmly, "That I'm on the rebound, then you'll have to take into account the fact that I've wanted you to come to bed with me for weeks now," she leant forwards and planted a kiss on his lips that was tender and inviting, but then a moment later pulled away just a little, "I want to show you that I'm not just half in love with you."

His hands had moved a little, cradling her lower back.

"Phyllis," he murmured softly, bowing his head back toward her, kissing her in return. It thrilled him that she gave a quiet little moan into their kiss. Her body was pulled so close to his, his hands so high on her back he was almost touching the bottom of her shoulder blades.

"Tell me later," she told him clumsily, between kisses, "I've decided- I want to go upstairs."

"Alright," he told her, letting her take his hand again swiftly, as soon as he voiced his acceptance, and lead him up the stairs.

It gave him a moment's concern when they entered the bedroom and he caught a glimpse of the bed in the corner of his eye- the bed she'd probably chosen with her husband- but a second later she commanded all of his attention again, eclipsing his view in a sweep of red and black, as she extended her slender arms, reaching for him. She pulled him to her by the lapels of his jacket, only to slip her hands beneath them and push it to the floor a moment later as they kissed.

"Tell me what you like," he told her softly, stroking his hand tenderly down her back, attempting to find the zip of her dress.

"Kissing you," she answered, her voice muffled by his jaw as she pressed fervent kisses there.

He turned back in towards her kisses, meeting her mouth again.

"Oh, god," he murmured to her, "You're so gorgeous, you're so wonderful."

She reached behind herself, guiding his hand, helping him find the zip of her dress, and he worked it down as she worked on the buttons of his shirt.

He watched in awe as the dress fell away from her neck, looking at the sweep of her collarbone, the gentle swell of her breast under the dark red lace of her bra.

"Christ," he murmured under his breath.

A smile perked up on her lips as she ran her hands over his chest. He shivered with arousal.

"I want you," she told him softly, "I've wanted you for bloody ages."

"Come on then," he took her hand and tugged her toward the bed.

She stopped before they made it there, pushing her dress off her legs and onto the floor. He sat down on the edge of the bed. He was momentarily distracted by the fact that her red lace knickers matched her bra, but brought rapidly back to the here and now when she straddled his thighs, sitting in his lap and pushing him back onto the bed. He exhaled in something between a gasp and an ecstatic laugh.

"Phyllis, love," he murmured, "Slow down. We've got all night."

"I know," she replied, bearing down over him, "But I'm impatient," she rolled her hips forwards a little, teasing him, "And I think you are too."

"I am," he told her, pushing himself back up, holding her in his arms, "But I want to remember everything about this."

She pressed her lips to his, less urgently then before and he savoured the slow kiss.

"Come here," he whispered to her, encouraging her to shift off his legs and moved over so that she could lie down beside him.

They lay side by side, breathing heavily, watching one another. Her hair was down now, falling over her shoulders. One of his arms reached out towards her, caressing down her arm, moving to cup her breast through the red lace.

"Is this alright?" he asked softly.

"Yes," she murmured, her head reclining a little, exposing the long line of her neck for a second.

Tenderly, he circled her breast with his thumb, finding her nipple proud and erect beneath the thin fabric and she sighed deeply again.

Her head moved back and she met his eye.

"Joseph," she told him firmly, her voice deep with desire in a way that turned him on more than anything had up to this point, "You're teasing me."

"Maybe I am," he agreed, "But you're enjoying it," he told her confidently.

"I am," she assured him, "But I want more."

"Alright," he murmured, leaning in and kissing her lips softly, almost chastely, "Alright, my love."

He withdrew his hand, but it was to replace it on the curve of her hip. Her breath hitched as his hand slipped into her knickers.

"Is this alright?" he asked her, looking at her face.

"Fuck, Joe, touch me," she told.

He supposed he's had that coming.

She groaned softly as he turned his fingertips to brush against her soft damp flesh. Her body rolled towards his, her hand reaching out for him, her fingers pressing into his skin a little. He moved closer to her too, pulling her knickers down a little with his other hand while he slipped a finger inside her. When she groaned with contentment, he added another. He pressed his thumb against her clitoris gently as he moved his fingers.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god-…."

"Shh," he murmured, kissing her forehead, "It's alright."

He moved his fingers a little bit more firmly this time.

"Joe-…" something in her voice warned him and he withdrew a little, giving her few moments to breath.

When she seemed to calm he reached out again, touching her breast first and then helping her slip out of her bra. He shifted on the bed, moving lower down her body, lying between her legs, kissing her breasts. She allowed him that for a few moments, minutes- it could have been years for all he knew, his hand still playing between her legs- then she shifted herself and undid his belt for him.

"You'd better take these off," she told him, 'Because I'm about to come shockingly hard any second now, and I want to do it with you."

Even in her state of arousal, she smiled at the frantic eagerness with which he kicked off his trousers and boxers, without even standing up.

He gasped as she reached out, taking him in her hand and stroking him firmly. She met his eyes smiling.

"You feel so good," she told him softly.

He halted her, with a gentle hand on the inside of her thigh.

"Let me?" he asked.

She nodded, and he did.

 **Please review if you have the time.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry, this took a while. (There was a slight case of going to the pub again).**

After her lectures, in the late morning, she came and found him in his and Thomas' office.

"Have you got time for a coffee?" she asked him.

"Yes, of course I have," he replied immediately, scooping his jacket off the back of the chair.

He ignored Thomas' raised eyebrows, he couldn't have given a shit.

"How are you feeling?" he asked quietly, as soon as they were out of the building and down the front steps.

She half turned, leaning into him, a residual smile lingering on her lips.

"I'm alright," she told him softly, "I feel good. Are you alright?"

"Yes," he replied, "Bit tired."

"Not get much sleep?" she pretended to chide him, raising an eyebrow at him.

They exchanged a smirk and were quiet the rest of the way to the coffee shop. He opened the door for her, momentarily resting has hand on the small of her back as he guided her inside. The quiet table in the corner was still free.

"You go and get that," he told her, pointing it out to her, "I'll go and get the coffees."

When he joined her a moment later, she was sitting with her hands clasped on the table in front of her, looking up at him expectantly, biting her lip a little.

"There you go," he placed the coffee in front of her, "Let me get it for you," he told her ask she reached for her purse.

"Second date?" she asked him, raising her eyebrow at him a fraction.

"Something like it," he replied, smiling.

"Wish it could end like the first one," she told him ruefully.

His eyes widened a little, and she grinned.

 _They had woken up that morning still wrapped up in each other's bodies, her hair all over the place. He'd come slowly back to consciousness, his face buried in shoulder, softly kissing her skin, stroking her and her side without thinking about it. She groaned softly, waking up a little bit too. He planted kisses on her temple, on the crown of her head. Their bodies were warm together, their proximity starting to make him feel aroused again._

 _The light from the window caught his eye, and, squinting, he saw the alarm clock on her bedside table._

 _"_ _Fuck, we're going to be so late."_

"How've your lectures been this morning?" he asked her.

"I couldn't concentrate," she admitted, meeting his eyes.

He thought he felt his heart physically swell with pride.

"I wonder why that was," he pretended to muse, taking a drink.

She snorted softly with laughter, she was smiling too.

"I've been tired too," he told her a moment later.

She took a sip of her coffee, then let it clink softly back into the saucer.

"Come over again tonight," she told him, asking him softly, imploring him just a little, "Please."

"Don't get me wrong," he told her, "I want to."

"But what?" she asked him.

"But is moving another man lock stock and barrel into your marital home going to do your divorce case any good?"

She looked really taken aback for a second.

"Shit," she murmured, "I hadn't really thought about it."

Well now he felt like an unromantic little shit. The look on her face really disconcerted him, and he added swiftly:

"We could go to mine," he told her, "We could probably get away with that. I just don't want to cause you any more shit."

She perked up a little bit at that.

"You're not the one who's cause me shit," she told him, "You've been good as gold," he smiled a little bashfully at her knowing look, "I've never been to yours before," she reminded him.

Oh, shit, she hadn't. Well that was another can of worms right open there, but he didn't have time to worry about that now. All that mattered was that she was happy.

"We could get a takeaway," he suggested, "Open that bottle of wine. I have quite a few Joni Mitchell albums too."

She was smiling properly now.

"That sounds nice," she replied, "I'd like that a lot."

 ** _/_**

He didn't have time to race home and tidy up his place before she got there, because she took the tube with him.

"You know, you've apologised about once every five minutes for the state of your place since we got on this train?" she asked as they stepped off together onto the platform, "You'd better have a fucking infestation at the least, or I'm going to be severely underwhelmed."

He smiled ruefully.

"I don't have an infestation," he replied.

"Well, thank Christ for that, we'll probably be alright, then."

Maybe he had been overthinking it. If he hadn't had lectures in the afternoon, he'd have definitely gone home to tidy it up.

"It's just less-… than your place," he tried to explain.

"Less what?" she asked him.

"Just less, really," he replied.

"That's only to be expected," she pointed out carefully, "There were two of us paying into that place."

"Even so-…" He didn't think that disparity would quite cover the difference between her place and his but didn't know how to say it.

But she noticed the fleetingly expression of distress on his face.

"Joe," she told him softly, slipping her hand into his as they made their way up the steps of the Underground, "Whatever your place is like, I'm probably going to prefer it to mine. Because it's yours. Alright?" her fingers squeezed his gently.

He looked at her smile and tried to stop worrying.

"Alright," he replied quietly.

 ** _/_**

"What kind of takeaway do you fancy?" he asked, coming in from the kitchen, "I've got a comprehensive bibliography of menus here."

She laughed as she reached over the back of the sofa so he could hand them to her. It was still strange to see her here on his settee, her legs tucked up under her body- she looked more at home than he could have imagined, the dark of her clothes and her hair blending with the worn brown leather.

"Have you got that wine?" she asked him.

"Yeah, hang on," he told her.

"It hasn't been in the fridge," he called for the kitchen, finding it tucked away at the back of the work top, "I'll put it in now."

"Then we'll have to find a way to amuse ourselves while we're waiting."

The bottle bumped against the rack in the fridge as he shoved it in clumsily and allowed the door to close of its own accord.

 ** _/_**

Needless to say they soon forgot about the wine, and about what they wanted to order to eat. As they stumbled into his bedroom together the thought briefly crossed his mind that the last time he'd been in this room he'd never made love to her before. And now he was here with her, and his brain didn't have time to memorialise the experience before she was tugging his shirt over his head. He gasped softly as her hand rubbed over his chest, her palms brushing against his nipples and she smiled softly.

"I was right," she told him softly, "I do like your place. I really like it here."

"That's good," he murmured, pressing his mouth to hers, kissing her.

She groaned softly, her head tipping back as his kisses moved down towards her throat. He pressed her back towards the bed. Unfastening his belt, she tried to pull his trousers down at the same time, making him stumble.

"Shit, sorry-…" but he snorted with laughter, and she laughed too when she saw he didn't mind.

He took a second to sort himself out, taking his boxers off too, standing before her stark naked, her still fully clothed. He saw her eyes flicker down over his chest. Her lower lip caught for a moment between her teeth, and she looked so full of need. Her hand clasped around his length and his breath shuddered from between his lips. She planted a single kiss on his mouth, her other hand reaching to the small of his back, pulling him closer to her.

 ** _/_**

It was hours later when they went back downstairs.

"It's probably going to have to be pizza at this time," he told her, glancing at the clock on the radio as they both padded into the kitchen in the dark.

She fished the wine out of the fridge. She was wearing his shirt, and her hair was falling about all over the place. She looked very beautiful, the light from the fridge door pooling around her middle.

"I don't mind," she replied, closing the fridge door with a quiet pop, "In fact, I'm starving, get a big one. I don't really care what kind."

He smiled at her.

"Alright," he replied.

"Do you want some wine?" she asked him.

"Of course."

She grinned at him, continuing to smile, almost to herself as she went softly off to pursue the almost hopeless task of finding some wine glasses in his kitchen, in the dark.

 **Please review if you have the time.**


	8. Chapter 8

"I've realised something. You're wrong."

They were out for coffee again. It was Saturday; the work had waned just a little, Phyllis' insuppressible need for caffeine hadn't. They had gone for a walk a little way away from his flat and found a coffee shop. When she spoke, he looked up from the copy of The Guardian he had in front of him.

"That's not a surprise," he replied, "About anything in particular?"

She smiled a little, but she seemed serious in spite of it. She didn't really want to joke around, she was trying to say something.

"You're wrong about the definition of love. You have to be."

Now he was serious too, and very averse to the notion of joking around. For a moment he almost couldn't process how to confront such a direct and all-encompassing criticism.

"About the whole thing?" he asked her, "Or just a part of it?"

"I don't know," she replied, her voice cautious, as if she was worried about startling or offending him, "But I do know that you're wrong when you say that love is something people construct entirely, that they make it up for themselves and decide what it is for themselves. Because," she told him softly, her voice seemed to tremble just a little, "When I'm with you, I'm not in control of my emotions like that. I can't decide what I feel for you, I can't draw my emotions in like that and define them, I just _feel_ -… so much. I'm not in control, it's like they're sweeping over me; it's not internal, it comes from the outside and knocks me over," her eyes focused on his face, coming out of the thoughtful middle distance, "What are you looking at me like that for? What are you thinking?" she asked him.

"Intellectually, or emotionally?"

"Both."

"Well," he told her with a smile, "Intellectually I'd say that you're beginning to sound suspiciously like you're forming you're own definition of love-…"

"I'm not," she replied, "Don't twist what I'm saying like that," she told him, then smiling at him in spite of herself, "Bastard. What about emotionally?"

"Emotionally, I love you, Phyllis Baxter."

Her eyelids fluttered for a second, and then her smile settled on her face.

"I love you too," she replied.

They were both silent for a moment. He tried to keep calm, though he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. She was still smiling.

"Do you not think it's ridiculous," she asked him, "I'm in love with you and because of the way I feel when I'm with you I start to question the idea that first started to make me love you?"

"Yes," he told her, "I think that sounds ridiculous. And a bit dangerous, from where I'm sitting."

She grinned a little, realising what he was saying.

"Don't worry," she told him, "You're pretty safe, from where I'm sitting. I've told you, I'm not in control, there's no way I'm going to reason myself out of this one."

"Alright," he replied, smiling at her humour, reaching across the table for her hands, "That's good."

He stroked his thumb over hers, raised one of her hands to his lips and kiss on her knuckles.

"I love you," he told her, very seriously, looking into her eyes, meaning in with every inch of his body and mind.

She slipped her hand out of his, caressing his cheek.

"I love you too," she told him.

They were quiet for another moment.

"Do you want to go home?" he asked her.

She met his eyes, knew what he meant.

"Yes," she replied, "I do."

 **end.**

 **Please review if you have the time. I really hope you liked it.**


	9. Chapter 9

**I wanted a little bit more so I epilogued.**

 **Epilogue**

"There's post here for you," he told her, placing the envelope in front of her on the kitchen table.

"Yes," she murmured softly, pushing her toast aside and looking at the envelope, "I finally got my address changed to here."

"Dicks have addressed it to Ms. P Baxter," he pointed out, sitting back down opposite her, nodding critically at the envelope, "You should tell them about that. It's like they think women can't be professors. You should tell them to fuck right off."

She smiled gently at his frustration on her behalf.

"They're lawyers," she told him, slipping her thumb under the paper to open it, "They know women can be professors."

"Is it from them?" he asked, doing a double take, looking anxiously at her over his tea, "What does it say?"

"Wait a second," she drew the first sheet out of the envelope, her eyes scanning it quickly, taking it in, flitting to the top and going over it again, "Yes," she said softly, "This is it."

He looked at her expectantly. She put the paper down on the table, offering it to him so he could read it.

"I'm a divorced woman," she told him, "Officially, in the eyes of the law."

His heart skipped a beat. He reached out, picking the paper off the table, reading it for himself.

When he put it down, he found her eyes watching his face. He was hard-pressed not to beam at her.

"How do you feel?" he asked her.

"No different," she replied softly.

He looked at her curiously.

"I've been divorced from Peter for a long time," she told him, "The law doesn't make much of a difference."

"It's nice to have it for confirmation, though," he pointed out.

She smiled gently.

"Well, there you may be right," she told him, "Anyway, it's quite a good start to the day," she tilted her head to the side a little, looking at his face. "How do you feel?" she asked.

"I don't know," he replied, "Surprised. Happy."

"That's good," she said softly, "Happy is good."

They were silent for a few moments.

"Of course, this now means that, officially, I'm single," she pointed out.

"Oh," he murmured, "I suppose it does." There was another pause, "You don't feel single do you?" he asked her.

"No," she replied truthfully, "But then I suppose it depends how you define it."

He caught a glint in her eye, and he knew she was teasing him. For a second he pretended to mull it over.

"What do you reckon to the single life, then?" he asked, "Legally speaking."

"Not much," she replied frankly.

"I see," he replied.

"Joe-…" she said softly, "Have you ever wondered if we-…?"

"Yes," he replied immediately.

"And what did you think about it?" she asked him.

"A lot," he told her, "Good things," he confirmed, "And wondering if you'd want to, ever again, after Peter."

"It would be completely different to with Peter," she told him swiftly.

He nodded his agreement.

"It would," he replied firmly.

She smiled at his certainty.

"So?" she prompted him.

"So-…" he began slowly, "Maybe, when you're ready-…"

"Oh, for God's sake, Joe," she rolled her eyes softly, a smile spreading across her face, "Call me Miss Baxter, in that ridiculous formal way you have when you're nervous, and ask me to marry you."

 **end. (this time)**


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